


Berns Night

by Weshallc



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22439776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weshallc/pseuds/Weshallc
Summary: January 25th is the anniversary of the birth of Scotland's most famous poet it's also Bernie Mannion's birthday. The Crown Inn hasn't celebrated Burns Night since Bernie's dad, Rev Wilf died. Can a bunch of English misfits and one Welsh Lass pull off a Berns Night to make Bernie feel at home and will Paddy play his part?
Relationships: Barbara Gilbert/Tom Hereward, Bernadette | Shelagh Turner & Patrick Turner, Chummy Browne/Peter Noakes, Delia Busby/Patsy Mount, Fred Buckle/Violet Buckle
Comments: 32
Kudos: 12





	1. Fair Fa' Your Honest, Sonsie Face

**Author's Note:**

> OK, so I have been attending and hosting Burns Nights since a nipper as it was my dad's birthday, and I have learnt so much in writing what was supposed to be just a fun one shot. So I understand this will be very confusing for some (maybe most) but I hope if you stick with it the traditions will become clear and at the end of the day it's just a story about community, friendship and love, the rest is just filler.

**“Fair fa** ’ **your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race!** Aboon **them a’ ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm** : **Weel are ye wordy o'a grace As lang’s my arm.” Address to a Haggis by Robert Burns 1786.**

**"Will You Recognize Me? Call My Name Or Walk On By." Don't You (Forget About Me), Simple Minds 1985**

**Monday 25th January 2016**

  
“His knife see rustic Labour dight, An’ cut you up wi’ ready sleight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin’, rich!”

The room was swept in darkness apart from the light of the wolf moon and the North Star penetrating the cold window panes. All eyes were facing towards a wooden table and the elderly man stood behind it. He was in his late 60s and wiry, small for a man, but with a silver mess of what once must have been a bonnie head of fire red hair. The body may have looked weak, but the intensity in his bright blue eyes cut through the dimly lit surroundings.

As he spoke again, his voice filled the room, cutting through the anticipating silence. It was a voice that could take a knife and slice right through a soul. The knife in his hand in turn sliced through the offering in front of its high priest. Years of performing the same action with such a passion resulted in precision. The faithful entranced by the spectacle all gasped as one, as the incision was violently made. No one dared to speak. Suddenly the trance was lost as artificial light rudely brought everyone back to the present with a blast of the pipes.

“All done then Reverend Mannion? Can I serve the Haggis now? Don’t want it getting cold now do we, not at £15 a head.”

“Aye, Violet the ceremony is over, it’s time for eating and drinking something the bard would have approved of, rightly so.”

The kilted clergyman winked at an auburn haired girl in the crowd and tipped his whisky tumbler toward her. She raised her own glass and winked back. Her companion at her table was much taller with dark hair styled in a tidy no-nonsense bob.

The tall one leaned toward the small one and asked, “If it’s already dead, why does he have to kill it?”

“What?”

“The Haggis if it’s already dead why does he have to kill it?”

Her friend opened her mouth to speak, but she saw a tender hand take hold of Chummy’s arm and explain it was all just ceremony, it was tradition.

“Like all that malarkey at our passing out parade, the day we got our badge. That wasn’t about police work, was it? It’s just tradition. It’s what the English do well.”

He had been doing really well up until then, but a golden raised eyebrow made him alter his stance. “It is what us Brits do best.”

The raised eyebrow whispered to the police constable. ”Peter, Chummy really doesn’t think a haggis is a real animal, does she?”

He was not the kind of man that would turn heads, but he had a kindness in his eyes and an openness in his face that she thought some would see as attractive. If only Camilla wasn’t his superior and they didn’t work such long hours together, what might have been?

She knew her friend well and sensed more queries would follow. Not sure as a Scot brought up on Tweavenside and now living in London she could provide satisfying answers. Picking up their empty glasses and heading to the bar was a strange sort of refuge for a vicar’s daughter and inner-city missionary.

There was a queue well sort of a queue. In London a queue was made up of people standing in an orderly line and the person who had been stood the longest getting served first. In Poplar-on-Tweaven it resembled more of a rugby scrum and the person who shouted the loudest being ignored and anyone who called the barmaid by name being bunked up the order. She wasn’t familiar with busy bars, but she was bright enough to work out the system.

“Val, when yer ready hen.” The request came from someone not sure that was their own voice they had just heard yelling those exact words.

All her life she had been immersed in the wonders of the Bible and was still amazed at how so many miracles had been performed. She had heard all the CPR arguments regarding resurrections and all that, and was still not convinced. But she now knew how Moses had parted the Red Sea, he had known the barmaid’s name was Valerie.

“What can I get you, chick?”

“Here! I was first.” A grumpy voice struck up.

“Oh Al, you are always first. Let me serve this lass and then I will sort you out.”

“Promises, promises.”

“Yeah in your dreams, pal.”

She was starting to feel uncomfortable she hadn’t meant to jump the queue. Maybe she should go back to the table and let Peter get the drinks. A man’s voice interrupted her thoughts, it was quieter than Al’s but held an authority. It wasn’t a Tweavenside accent, but it had a northern softness.

“You serve our impatient friend Valerie, I will see to this young lady.” Then turning to his new customer, “What can I get you, pet”

“Erm a whisky and lemonade and erm a pint, please.”

“Which whisky and a pint of?”

She wasn’t sure; she nudged her bottom onto a vacant stool for security.

“Are you with the law?” The tall bartender nodded towards Chummy and Peter.

“Yes, yes I am.”

“OK, so that’s a Famous Grouse and diet lemonade, just a dash. And a pint of Buckles Best and for you?”

He stepped back a minute. “Your Reverend Wilf’s daughter?”

"Yes, I am.” Bernie suddenly felt more sure of herself. She was never completely certain of who she was when back in Poplar

“Bernadette?” The stranger was grinning now, his brown eyes glinting under the harsh bar spotlights, or were they green?

“Well, that’s my Sunday name most people call me Bernie, even Dad.”

“Well, since I’ve never seen you in here on a Sunday or any other day. I will call you Bernie. I am Patrick Turner most people call me Paddy, a few Doc.”

“Oh no, you won’t have seen me here on a Sunday or any other day. I live in London now and before that, well I am not a big drinker.”

“What can I get you then?” asked Paddy loitering near the coke and lemonade pumps.

“A gin and tonic please, better make it a double it’s quite busy, save me coming back.”

Paddy smiled. “Premium gin?”

“Yes.”

While the optic was emptying into the glass, he asked, “You must have known this old place when Evie ran it?”

“Yes, I know Evie and J..Jenny”

“Oh yes. Jen was here when me and the wife took over she was a great help. We get a text every now and again, doing well for herself now all loved up.” He winked at her as he ended the sentence causing her to panic slightly.

“I was sorry to hear about your loss.” She wished she hadn’t said it.

Val had seemed to deal with ten customers to Paddy’s one and now there was just the two of them alone at the bar. He looked at her in a sort of a non-direct, sort of direct way, under that infuriating fringe she wanted to reach out and push back.

“Loss is as much a part of love as is healing,” he replied with a hint of melancholy but without irony.

She was stunned and tried to find a corresponding Bible verse, but she drew a blank.

She focused on what was real and what was present, her dad had taught her to do that. What was in front of her at this precise moment was a glass of gin and ice and a twist of lime. He was now unscrewing a bottle of Mediterranean slimline tonic.

She yelped, “No!” as he lay the bottle alongside the glass.

“Sorry most people add the tonic to the gin and I cannae bear it drowned.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, surely that would be very presumptuous of me.”

“Aye well, most people I’ve met are very presumptuous.”

“Maybe you have spent too much time in London. if you don’t mind me saying, Bernie.”

“Well, to be fair we don’t spend a lot of time sitting on stools and propping up bars in my part of London.”

“More’s the pity.”

“Can I bother you for a…”

Paddy popped a black straw into her tumbler.

“I will make sure when you come home next time none of my staff will be presumptuous.”

“Oh, I doubt you will remember me, Paddy. I only come up to see my Da. I can’t imagine you will be seeing much of me in the future, hardly likely that I would ever be considered a regular.”

“Now who is being presumptuous?”

Bernie went to put the straw between her lips but paused realizing the stranger was still watching her, she suddenly felt uncomfortable. As heat rose in her cheeks and she suddenly felt awkward on the stool, squirming to find some sort of comfortable position. The stranger smiled in a way she could not understand; it wasn’t smug or suggestive, but as if there were sharing a joke, but she wasn’t sure what the joke was.

She hopped off her seat, for a brief moment realizing her arse was in the air and prayed he had altered his gaze. Focusing anywhere but behind the bar she grabbed her glass and bottle in one hand, put the whisky against her elbow and waist, the pint in her other hand, turned and swiftly moved toward her thirsty friends.

_Shelagh Bernadette Mannion don't_ _you dare look back and see if he is watching you he is recently widowed_ _with a son, Da said. He is, what do they call them now, a bloomer or something like that. God has shown you his path for you and it certainly_ _does not include the Crown Inn, Poplar-on-Tweaven_

_He is still watching me_ , _I can feel it._


	2. The Bonnie Lad That's Far Awa"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are back with the original time-line and hopefully more Burns Night traditions will become familiar as we go along! Thanks for reading!

**“His Face With Smile Eternal Drest, Just Like The Landlord’s To His Guest’s, High As They Hang With Creaking Din, To Index Out The Country Inn.” Versicles On Sign-Posts by Robert Burns 1788.**

**"The Needle Returns to the Start of the Song, And We All Sing Along as Before." Nothing Ever Happens, Del Amitri 1989.**

**January 2020.**

Fred Buckle clambered up from the cellar of the Crown Inn and perched his ample posterior on a bar stool wiping his forehead with an old bar towel he used when helping Paddy exchange the old barrels for new. Violet tutted as she placed a sausage sandwich and a mug of tea on the bar in front of him.

“Sure you don’t want one, Paddy.”

“No, I am fine Vi, just a cuppa, cheers. I had breakfast with Bernie before she went on her rounds.”

“I will have another one, Violet.”

“I am sure you won’t Reggie. You scoffed that back like there was no tomorrow, doesn’t your uncle feed you.”

No one replied to this as everyone knew Violet fed them both, if not at the Crown, at either her home or Fred’s.

To spare Violet’s blushes, Fred began. “I have a little beauty brewing, be just right for Burns Night, Doc.”

“Burn’s Night?” questioned Vi.

“Yep, soon comes around after Christmas, Vi. Be Valentines before we know it.”

He winked and Vi wiped a cloth under Paddy’s mug and straightened the bar towel.

“Fred, I don’t think so, not this year anyway.” Paddy added, trying not to look at Val, who was checking the mixer fridge with visibly shaking shoulders.

“But we always do a Burns Night it’s tradition,” protested Fred.

“No, we haven’t done one for the last couple of years Fred, not since Wilf took poorly.” Vi had regained her composure.

“Well, it’s about time we did again.” Fred was like a dog with a bone or in this case a sausage.

Val also more composed now, looked at Vi, who was in turn looking at Paddy. Tim, who had been trying to clean all the chalk marks off the dart scoreboard under Evie’s instruction, looked at his mentor and they both moved closer to the bar.

“Look, I know, Bernie. She won’t be upset because her dad’s not here to do the twiddly bits. She wouldn’t still be in Poplar if she was worried about being reminded of her dad.”

“Always wondered why she was still in Poplar,” Tim smirked and Evie frowned at him deciding it was time to enlighten everyone.

“The reason we haven’t had a Burns Night since Reverend Wilf died is because we have no one to Address the Haggis.”

“Well, Mr T could do it,” Reggie chirped in as Paddy went pale.

“Yeah, you’ll like that boss,” Val added, “any excuse to slope off and leave me on my tod behind the bar. I presume birthday girl _Lorraine Kelly_ Mannion won’t be working either.”

Evie and Vi sighed in unison. “What?” said Val.

Paddy turned to her, but before he could speak, Val interrupted. “Don’t tell me you are scared of haggis as well as alpacas.”

Tim, Reggie and a lurking Jack found this highly amusing, but Evie had had enough.

“No, it’s not that, it really should be a Scot that addresses the haggis otherwise it’s just not going to sound right, a bit like, well like when Captain Kirk sang Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”

“Isn’t that your ringtone, Tim?” Jack smirked. Tim ignored him as per se.

“Weezer doing Africa,” Val was beginning to understand.

“Miley Cyrus doing Nirvana,” Tim added, still ignoring Jack.

“But, Bernie is Scottish!” added Reggie optimistically .

“Yes, but it’s traditionally a man,” Vi said nervously.

“Oh, well, heaven forbid we bring Poplar into the 21st century,” Val cried. “How do you know all this anyway, you two?”

“We have been doing this for years. Wilf was a member of the Burns Society. Val you were there at the last one we had, must have been?” Violet explained.

“Oh, I was there alright, working behind the bar, sorry if I didn’t have time to memorize ancient Scottish protocol while fighting off the thirsty English hoards.”

“Can we all just calm down,” Paddy sounded exasperated, and it wasn’t even ten o’clock. “Look, I appreciate while Wilf was alive and in Evie’s time we celebrated Burns Night.” He continued a little firmer. “Me and Mazz tried to keep it going as long as Wilf was around, but he is gone. Let’s be honest Wilf arranged everything even the piper was his mate from Kelso. Do you have his number Evie? I know I don’t.” The ex-landlady shook her head. “Come on, let’s admit it we are just pissing in the wind.”

“Dad.”

“But it’s for Bernie, you do know it’s also her birthday?” Val said sulkily.

“Yes. I do know, and if I know Bernie, she would rather just go to the pictures and a Parmo then all this fuss.”

“Would she really?” grumbled Val.

“Dad.”

“I do know how to prepare a good Burns supper, never had any complaints in all the years.” Vi sounded defeated.

“I brewed some ale specially.” Fred’s tone was flat in a way his beer never was.

“Dad.”

“Paddy is right. Burns Night was Wilf’s night gave him a chance to show off without having to stand behind a pulpit.” Evie reminisced. “For one night only, he could be Wilf Mannion in a kilt and not Poplar’s vicar in a dog collar. If we can’t do it properly, we shouldn’t do it at all.” Evie nodded toward Paddy.

 _Thank you,_ he mouthed in return.

“Dad.”

“Does anyone else think we are overthinking this.” Val never took no for an answer.

“Yes.” Reggie cried.

“Basically, all we need is someone who is Scottish, I mean if I have to hike up to the Borders myself and toss one over my shoulder and bring em back I will,” Val quipped.

“Dad.”

“Not now, Tim.”

“But Dad.”

“Not now, Tim.”

“Do they have to be 100% Scottish?” Tim asked facing Vi and Evie who seemed to be the authority on this.

They looked at each other, but Val stepped in. “I don’t know Tim, I will just look at the rule book. Oh, look at that there isn’t one.”

“I think we would settle for a left bollock’s worth right now,” muttered a despondent Fred.

“Fred, there is no need to be vulgar! Reggie don’t listen to him.” Vi reprimanded.

“I could do it then,” said Tim.

“You have a Scottish bollock, Turner. Does Lucy know?”

“Jack Smith!” Scalded Violet as Reggie chuckled.

“No, Smithy, but my Gran was Scottish.” Tim blushed from the neck up as is the way of teenage boys when the whole room is looking at them.

“Your gran, so Marianne’s mother,” Evie enquired.

“No, Dad’s mam.”

All eyes moved towards Paddy, who seemed to lose as much colour as Tim had gained.

“OK, so I don’t think we are going to get any further today. We open in five everyone back to work.”


	3. Of Mice and Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A village full of English people and one Welsh lass trying to plan a traditional Scottish Burns Night what could possibly go wrong?

**“The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men. Gang aft agley. An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain. For promis’d joy!” Robert Burns, To A Mouse 1785.**

**"Liars and Lovers combine tonight, We're gonna Make a Scene." The Captain, Biffy Clyro 2009.**

The largest reception room at Mount Busby Farm would have once been very grand, with Queen Anne furniture and Regency coffee tables. The only thing that remained unchanged was that the original fireplace still gave up warmth and light provided by nature and the windows let in the light from the same star constellations and the same moon.

The Two Loves preferred antique furniture of a later period and in their 80s comfort was paramount. The room was stocked with love seats, chesterfields, recliners, bean bags, generous cushions and a rather charming gold settee that suspiciously looked pre-war. Just no one was sure which war. Everyone mocked it, but everyone fought to sit on it as it was very comfy. Patsy often talked about replacing it, but Delia wouldn’t hear of it. _You don’t throw your memories out with the rubbish and there are more memories than just ours hidden within these cushions, Cariad._ That was always the end of it.

The most current occupants of that particular settee to be making memories were Tim Turner and Lucille Anderson. Phyllis looked over at the awkward teen who was no longer as awkward as he had once been. He sat comfortably chatting to his companion, both of them laughing at intervals. Lucille often finishing Tim’s sentences or him proclaiming, _yep that’s it_ or _knew you’d get it ,_ when they appeared to reach a level of understanding. Of course, when she asked the student nurse about her new friendship she would just reply, brushing the older nurse off. _Oh, he is precious; He makes me laugh._

He was certainly doing that from where Matron Crane was sitting on a leather tan Whitworth dining chair probably by Frank Hudson. Years of heavy lifting before the introduction of patient hoists and transfer boards had taken their toll on the matron’s back. It was why she had found herself in a more managerial role much earlier than she would have truly preferred. She looked at Student Nurse Anderson and thought maybe the NHS was in more tender capable hands than the shitstirrers would have them believe.

“I am wondering if we should start,” youth minister Tom Hereward was on his feet. “I am not sure how long baby will sleep in a strange house.”

“I have been called many things in my time, but not sure strange is one of them,” laughed Delia.

“Oh, I have Deals, it’s fine,” reassured Patsy.

Tom turned pink. Trixie leaned over to him, “They are joking,” and sat back onto the giant purple pouffe she was sharing with Valerie. “I know, I live here. I have to put up with it all the time.”

“So. Erm who is in charge, who has the most authority here.” Tom was still trying to create some sense of order.

“Well, Julia is the vicar,” chirped in Bobby trying to offer her husband some support.

“But this is not the church,” Rev Julia responded with a warm smile.

“Another shock there then, it’s all coming out tonight, Patsy.” Delia couldn’t help herself when she had an audience and a bottle of Prosecco was being passed round.

“Matron Crane is on the council,” Lucille reminded everyone.

“No, I don’t think that matters lass, it’s not a council matter.” Phyllis shook her head.

“Well, someone needs to take the lead,” Tom said with a hint of irritation.

“I will! On the authority that I am a young woman on her only night off of the week,” struck up Val, "but I have agreed to come here and discuss plans for Bernie’s birthday instead of having two for one Sex on the Beach.”

“It’s a cocktail, and its Happy Hour at the Fourteen Teacups on a Tuesday,” Trixie interpreted for everyone and to save Tom anymore anxiety.

“That’s ambitious having a Happy Hour in the Teacups, isn’t it?” said Fred, who had managed to wedge himself into a deep red Chesterfield.

“Yeah, apparently Ursula gives you the right change, that’s why they call it happy hour,” Tim smirked.

“As I am representing the Crown. I will continue,” said Val, and she did, “we want to put on a Burns Night for Bernie’s birthday like in the old days. Now Tim has told us Paddy is half Scottish.”

“Why isn’t he here?” asked Bobby.

“Well, he said it would look suspicious if he left Bernie on her tod behind the bar on a Tuesday night,” Vi explained sitting on a scarlet love seat next to Fred's Chesterfield.

“Yep, in case our two Tuesday night regulars rush the bar at once,” snorted Val.

“I think it’s more that it would look suspicious if he actually just left Bernie alone for five minutes,” Trixie corrected.

Lucille felt Tim squirm in the seat beside her. She knew he thought the world of Bernie, but didn’t like to hear her relationship with his father discussed in public. This was inevitable being a small village with one pub, one church and two of the villages most popular inhabitants linked to both. She tried to ease his tension.

“I think it’s lovely, just shows as my grandma used to say there may be snow on the roof, but there is still fire in the grate.”

As everyone surrendered to laughter, Matron shared a smile with the vicar, both of them confirming Lucille might be familiar with the saying but maybe not it’s meaning.

Delia was the first to keep a straight face, “But they are only bairns, wait until they are mine and Pats age then the fire may need a little bit of stoking.”

“Yes, Deals, but remember we have never required the use of a poker.”

Val swiftly continued, “Paddy doesn’t wish to be involved.”

“Why?” Reggie asked perched on his wooden stool.

Val motioned towards Tim, who was still recovering from the last topic of conversation.

“ _Because it would look ridiculous_ , his words not mine.” Tim continued, “and I quote, _Wilf had the works, I would look like I was trying to pull a stunt to impress Bernie by looking like I was dressing in drag and taking the piss._ ”

Tim looked at his knees and Lucille gave one a quick squeeze. She knew this wasn’t easy for him.

Everyone else also looked at their knees, the mood was solemn.

“We can all understand Paddy’s reasons.” There were a couple of nods and sighs in response. “But we aren’t putting up with any of that nonsense,” Val added with a grin.

This was met with a very large and unanimous cheer.

“Well, I’ve already looked up the Turner tartan,” Trixie handed an iPad over to Patsy via Val.

“That’s very smart,” approved the artist.

“Sorry I hate to throw a spanner in the works, but how are we going to afford all this?” butt in a pensive Vi.

“We’ve already thought of that,” grinned Delia, ”Mount Busby will cover the cost of the costume.”

“That’s very generous,” sniffed Evie, who had nearly dozed off in a leather recliner.

“Not really,” explained Patsy. “I have a friend that works for Kilts 4 U and they are very interested in looking into the possibility of making an alpaca lined sporran.”

This was news to Reggie who followed anything relating to his charges with great interest, “What’s a sporran?”

“It’s where he keeps his spare change,” Fred enlightened or at least tried to.

“It’s the little purse that men wear at the front of the kilt, Reggie,” Violet elaborated. He seemed reassured by this.

“So anyway in return for a few samples,” Patsy continued, “my friend will be happy to hire out the full regalia for the evening.”

“It’s not long now until Burns Night have you got some sort of prototype ready?” quizzed Evie.

“Lady K is working on them as we speak. She loves nothing better than fiddling with a bit of alpaca wool,” Delia replied gleefully.

“Lady K?” Phyllis queried.

“Yes, she is very creative,” reassured Trixie.

“I don’t doubt it, Trixie, but she is one of Bernie’s clients. What if the lass sees what she is up to.”

“Don’t fret Phyllis,” Patsy interjected, “I find that Antonia is much less forgetful when she has an occupation to challenge her and I am certain she won’t let the cat out of its proverbial bag.”

Jack sat on the floor banged his head against the fire surround he was leaning against, “Can’t imagine Berns thinking, oh! look Lady K is sticking bits of alpaca wool to a man’s bag he hangs in front of his todger, that must be something to do with Paddy and my birthday”

Vi was quick to admonish Jack, but when even Tom started to laugh, she decided to let it go.

“What about the little knifey thing they keep in their sock that he stabs the Haggis with?” Fred was beginning to get excited.

“Sgian dubh,” corrected Vi.

“All part of the traditional dress,” Patsy added a tone to her voice to reassure everyone that she had thought of everything.

“So that’s the gear sorted. Me and Reggie are in charge of the beer. What else?” Fred’s eyes were wide thinking they actually might be able to pull this off.

“Well, myself and Evie have created a menu, pretty much on the lines of what we used to do in Wilf’s day.” Violet opened a small notebook and put on her reading glasses.

Clearing her throat she read, “Cock-a-leekie soup, Scottish salmon and tattie scones or scotch egg for starters.”

“Cock a what?” shouted up Jack.

“Chicken and vegetable soup to you, young man. There will be a just vegetable option, too.” Violet’s voice began to take on the air it adopted when addressing an audience. “Then we have the Haggis or vegan Haggis, neeps and tatties and a whisky sauce.”

“What about those that might not wish to partake in the Haggis?” Tom asked nervously, as he might.

Evie spoke up before Vi could respond. “There is always the Fourteen Teacups for the likes of those that don’t wish to have Haggis. It’s a Burns Night. If you don’t want Haggis, then stay at home and order in a pizza.”

“What’s for pudding?” Bobby struck up, squeezing her husband’s hand.

“Cranachan which is raspberries, cream, oats and whisky, or Clootie pudding with whisky sauce or whisky ice cream or a Scottish cheese board with oatcakes.”

Murmurs of approval were aimed in Violet’s direction.

“That’s a lot of whisky?” Lucille remarked.

Violet agreed, “Yes, we need just a house whisky for everyone for the toasts Val, I will leave that to you. But you need to pay the piper with a good quality malt.”

Silence broke out in the previously buzzing over occupied living room.

“Piper!” Several people groaned at once. 

Fred, who was not going to let anything get in the way of this Burns Night declared, “Look we will just have to bung on a recording.” Turning to Tim and Jack, he said, “You lads look up the Red Hot Chilli Pipers on your phones.”

Tim reached for his phone swiping the picture of Lucille and him with Alpaca Colin. But Lucille touched his hand, making him hesitate.

“I don’t think that would be very suitable Mr Buckle, going to all this trouble with such a delicious menu and Mr Turner all dressed up in the finest regalia and then having some squeaky din coming out of an iPhone.”

“Your right lass, it just won’t do,” supported Phyllis.

“Well, does anyone know a piper?” Fred replied wearily.

“Surely we can find a professional one online?” contributed Julia

“A professional piper that’s free on Burns Night at this late notice,” chided Phyllis.

“I know a piper.”

The voice came from the back of the room everyone turned to look at the slight dark-haired woman sat on a dining chair. “Well, I think we all do.”

“Do we, Jane?” Julia asked.

“Yes, the busker that stands outside the town hall in Appleby Thornton.”

Everyone started talking at once;

“I only go into town every second Tuesday to get my hair done.”

“Same here I only go through if I have a doctor’s appointment.”

“Well, it’s the cost of the parking isn’t it, it’s free at Tweaven Retail Park and more shops.”

“You can get it on t’internet delivered to your door.”

“I haven’t been since Marks and Spencers closed.”

“Debenhams is closing next week such a shame, that shops older than me, always been a department store in Appleby Thornton.”

“It was one of the first in the country to have a lift, you know.”

Jane cleared her throat. “There are a lot of good things about Appleby Thornton that are not always obvious.”

“Here, here!” chimed in Val, “there is still a Primark.”

“Oh well, let’s be grateful for small mercies,” stung back Trixie.

Much to Delia’s disappointment, Val bit her lip. The ex nurse and market gardener loved a full house. She cherished her quiet times with Patsy too, but she was the more sociable of the pair. The farm was large enough for Patsy to have her office and art studio and not be disturbed while Delia fussed the alpacas with Reggie. Trixie moving in had been Patsy’s scheme, but Delia was the one who had benefited most from their new project, even if she would never let their new employee know she was a project.

Delia enjoyed listening to Trixie’s anecdotes and gossip, she felt reconnected with a world that was moving so fast. The Two Loves were business women and technology hadn’t passed them by. It was the music, the celebrities, the trashy telly that Patsy despised and Delia loved that made having Trixie and her friends around delight Delia.

Delia’s caregiver probably wasn’t as up-to-date with pop culture as Trixie and her friend. Val was now a frequent visitor to Mount Busby as she and their new lodger had struck up quite a friendship. Nurse Bernie though always looked a bit behind the door when the other two were in full flow about some reality TV show.

But since Trixie had moved in, Nurse made Delia’s blood pressure check the last visit on her rounds and she drank tea sitting and chatting with Trixie. Bernie didn’t need to watch Love Island. She had her own romantic paradise in Poplar-on-Tweaven and Delia couldn’t be more happy for her.

Val had bitten her lip because even though her new friend was still a bit of an enigma to her. She did know Trixie might talk as if she had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but in the last few months she had gleaned enough to know, that spoon had been tarnished sometime ago. So in spite of all her bravado, Trixie was as familiar with Poundland as she was Prada.

It was Julia who cut through the chatter. “I believe I am familiar with the young man you are referring to. He has a small dog with him if I am right?”

“Yes, Reverend.” Jane was beginning to believe she had dreamt the piper and maybe also Appleby Thornton.

“He’s rather good, as I remember.”

Jane was beaming as she nodded.

“So problem solved,” Fred rubbed his hands together with glee, “tot of whisky, a bowl of water for the pooch, bob’s your uncle, sorted”

“No, it certainly is not.” Trixie’s tone caused everyone to alter their gaze, “this man is a professional musician surely, if he has a regular spot he has a license. I am sure Chummy is well acquainted with the gentleman and his story, we can ask her.”

Inspector Noakes had been unable to attend the meeting because of work commitments and Peter’s Tuesday evenings were spent running a youth football team that Jack and Timothy had both enjoyed being a part of. Alas Tim had become too rangy and prone to injury and Jack had become too lazy and prone to chips.

Trixie continued, “He deserves an appropriate wage for his efforts.” She turned to Val. “I believe the Crown has an entertainments licence.”

Val nodded and smiled reassuringly at her friend, “Paddy does, leave it with me and I will also make sure he and the mut are fed and provided with transport both ways.”

Trixie relaxed and shared a smile with the aromatherapist sitting at the back of the room. “Do you know his name?”

“Kevin.”

Fred let out a huge sigh. “So we are all sorted then?”

“It would appear so,” replied Lucille grimacing at Tim.

“Apart from Dad,” groaned Tim.

Followed by an echo of sighs.

“Leave your dad to me, Chick.” winked Val.


	4. There in Thy Scanty Mantle Clad.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you just have to feel for Trixie and all the pressure she is under.....

**“There, in Thy Scanty Mantle Clad, Thy Snawie Bosom Sunward Spread.” To a Mountain Daisy, Robert Burns 1786**

**"I Hear Your Footsteps in the Streets, it Won't Be Long Until We Meet. It's Obvious." Oblivious, Aztec Camera 1983**

“Ouch, be careful!”

“Well stand still, Paddy,” Trixie scolded, “and I won’t accidentally prick you.”

“Is this really necessary?” whined the publican, not for the first time that hour.

“You want it the right length don’t you?” admonished the determined dressmaker.

“That’s too short.” Paddy grumbled swaying unsteadily on the rickety foot stool.

“No it’s not.”

Patsy interrupted the squabbling confirming the kilt should hang from the top of the hip and finish at the top of the knee.

“This one is too high.” Paddy fiddled with the waistband.

“No, it’s not! It sits at the navel.” Getting up from her knees Trixie playfully poked Paddy in the belly button.

The temporary male model wasn’t amused and Delia felt some sympathy. “Right Doc, take it off now, so Chummy can alter it.”

Paddy hopped off the footstool, the green and blue checked woolen garment swaying around his thighs. He grabbed his jeans and headed out of Patsy’s studio towards the downstairs loo. Patsy, Delia and Trixie didn’t wait until he had closed the door behind him before they burst into giggles.

Saturday 25th January 2020

Bernie wouldn’t want anyone to accuse her of being ungrateful, but she would have much rather spent her birthday at work. Back in Poplar-on-Tweaven working behind the bar with Paddy rather than traipsing around Newcastle city centre with Trixie.

Saturday’s were usually fun at the Crown. Sundays you could always predict to be busy, due to the temptation of Violet’s Sunday lunches and the _let’s have a nice day in the country_ crowd. Saturday’s were more unpredictable a lot depending on whether there was a match on. The football crowd had made Bernie nervous at first, but she had taken her lead from Val, who seemed to know the right mix between flirting and being one of the lads. She even surprised herself with her knowledge of the offside-rule and recognising a few players when they came in during the off-season.

“So, what about this one?” Trixie’s irritated voice broke through Bernie’s wistfulness. They were standing in Fenwick’s department store, her friend was holding up a black mini dress bearing a large faint gold and red criss-cross pattern.

“Isn’t it a bit _tartanie_?” Bernie screwed up her nose.

Trixie tried very hard not to give anything away. “What’s wrong with tartan, your Scottish, don’t you just love tartan?”

Bernie bit her lip and tried to keep a level of calmness in her voice, “I am not that kinda Scottish.”

Trixie clanged the hanger back onto the rail in frustration. Bernie felt a twinge of guilt for exasperating her well meaning friend.

“I will probably just wear my good jeans and a sparkly top, Trixie.” Bernie tried to reassure, without much success.

“But, Paddy is taking you out somewhere nice tonight, surely you want to look the part?”

Bernie took a deep breath, “The part?...the part of Paddy’s date! I am thinking jeans and a nice wee top will do just fine, Trixie.”

It was several hours later, Bernie was looking at herself in the oak cheval mirror in the corner of her bedroom. The little black dress with the red and gold criss-crosses did look quite nice on and it did have pockets so that was a bonus. She heaved up her 40 denier black tights one last time. Why did they never make the small, small enough. She smiled, knowing if Chummy were in the room she would ask why they didn’t make extra large, extra enough.

A frown reflected back at her as she fiddled with her hair. Trixie had insisted on styling it with a mountain of product she had brought back from Boots. As a result it now seemed to flick out in all directions. The would-be stylist had been very pleased with the finished article and Bernie had smiled and made positive noises. She really wanted to put a brush through it and tie it back in a scrunchie like she did most days. Trixie’s sixth sense clicked in and she growled, “Leave it.”

They set out, tottering the short distance from Bernie’s cottage to the Crown Inn. Arm-in-arm, more for stability than out of friendship. Trixie in nine months of living just outside of Poplar had still not mastered walking on cobbles in heels. Bernie more used to ankle boots and trainers had let Trixie talk her into buying a pair of black below-the-knee boots in the January sales. Until today the labels hadn’t been removed. She was convinced the young saleswoman and her friend had been in collusion. Eventually the overwhelming smell of leather, shoe pollish and sweaty feet on an empty stomach had rendered the usually stubborn Bernie vulnerable. Well honed sales techniques and Trixie’s promise of a Greggs’ vegan sausage roll to offset the purchase of leather eventually triumphed. These boots were definitely not made for walking, Bernie decided. She was however glad of the extra fabric as the north wind whistled around her shorter than usual hem line.

As if sensing her friends awkwardness, Trixie squeezed her arm a little more tightly. “You look amazing, just don’t scuff those killer, fuck-me boots on the cobbles.”

This warning unsurprisingly had the opposite effect than intended, as Bernie stuttered to an abrupt halt and dropped her friend's arm,

“What?” Bernie shrieked in horror. Trixie grabbed back hold of her stabilizer and dragged her along laughing so infectiously that Bernie couldn’t help but succumb.

“Why are you so tarted up anyway for a night in the Crown?”

“It’s your birthday and I thought you would be having a drink before heading off with Paddy. Just because it is a country pub doesn’t mean everyone has to always wear wellies and a jumper with a hole in it.”

Bernie’s mock indignation at Trixie’s jibe resulted in a snort as she tried to hold in a laugh. They were still sniggering as Trixie lunged forward and steadied herself by slapping her hand heavily against the inn’s bay window. She pulled herself up and then slapped her hand against the window one more time. Bernie, who was still giggling, just shrugged at her friends clumsy behaviour.

“Bit slippy there, have to tell Paddy about that.” Trixie straightened up and smiled nervously.

“OK.” Bernie nodded somewhat bemused as she pushed open the large wooden doors of the old inn.

Bernie later couldn’t recall if it was her eyes that first alerted her that something was different; the darkness giving the game away. Or it could have been her ears as they picked up the deep drone of the bagpipes. Maybe it was neither, her skin tingling with goosebumps was more than likely the first sign that all was not as it should be.

After that initial physical reaction her mind seemed to give up trying to make any sense of anything. It all became a blur. She remembered Trixie pushing her in the back and into the bar and placing something around her shoulders. There had definitely been cheering and then a very tuneless rendition of Happy Birthday accompanied by the bagpipes and a small band.

The pipes - bashful Kevin and his wee dog, at first she had thought Paddy or somebody had bought her a pet for her birthday. The poor wee thing was used to sitting and looking cute outside the town hall. Raising a paw everytime someone dropped a coin in Kev’s mug. The animal had become a little overwhelmed by the commotion and sheer volume of people. Realizing that the lady who had just come through the door must be somehow responsible for the change in ambience; he could not resist jumping up at the new arrival with great enthusiasm. His owner was horrified, but unsure what was more important; to reprimand his charge or keep playing. Fortunately the situation was resolved when a large pair of hands gently scooped up the tiny mongrel and calmed him down by whispering in his ear and letting him lick his face.

Bernie remembered Violet telling Reggie to take the excited guest through the back for a biscuit. The comotion had given Bernie time to take it all in, the low lighting, the table centres made up of thistles and blue and purple hyacinths each with a thick white candle, flames dancing a jig on every table. The black, royal blue and red tartan tablecloths and a larger trestle table covered with a different checked pattern, a lighter blue and green with gold.

Bernie wasn’t given long to take it all in, as she was overwhelmed by hugs and kisses. Mostly from people she knew like the Noakes’, Fred, Jane, Phyllis and Julia along with a few she didn’t know, which was a bit disconcerting. Along with the displays of affection, cards and packages that were also pressed into her. Finding it very difficult to accept all the hugs from her friends and free herself from those who weren’t, Bernie found it impossible to balance all the gifts too. Fortunately Trixie had been prepared for this and took on the role of a lady-in-waiting, as if Bernie had suddenly been crowned the Princess of Poplar. The village's newest resident relished her role as best friend, relieving Bernie of her burdens as swiftly as she received them. Trixie may have had a colourful life but she did like to be of use.

It was Val who finally rescued her from the wall of wellwishers. Taking Bernie by the hand she took her behind the bar and up the stairs to the living accomodation. “Are you ready for your present?”

Exasperated by the recent unexpected events and not knowing what to expect next Bernie just shrugged her shoulders. Secretly she was enjoying the calm of the Turner flat and not being the centre of attention. Val gave her a quick squeeze and told her, “Happy birthday, chick.” Opening the door to Paddy’s living room she added winking,

“You’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have got as far as chapter 4 you are a true hero! I added some explanation to the summary on chapter one and added some Scottish tunes to the 18th century poetry! And if you have stuck around this long, I promise it will soon be party time....


	5. Ae Fond Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bernie, just remember it's the thought that counts...

**“Who Shall Say That Fortune Grieves Him. While The Star of Hope She Leaves Him?” Ae Fond Kiss, Robert Burns 1791**

**“I Pictured A Rainbow, You Held It In Your Hands.” The Whole of the Moon, The Waterboys 1985**

  
  


Bernie grabbed Val’s arm to steady herself. Paddy stood in front of her fidgeting with the cobalt blue fabric with a wide green check overlayed with a thinner gold and black one. His fiddling pulled at the kilt pin weighing the piece of cloth down at the knee. The tiny silver dagger bearing his clan crest caught the light from the hall, where Bernie remained stood stock still in the doorway. 

Paddy then reached for the frilly white lace jabot fastened around his neck, pulling at the lace with one hand, as if it was choking him. The other hand straightened the black waistcoat with the three silver buttons, matching the three on the sleeves of the Montrose jacket. They in turn matched those perfectly polished down the front of both sides of the centre of that waist length black jacket. 

Bernie’s dropped jaw started to quiver as a chuckle threatened to emerge. Paddy shot a look of accusation at Val who intern nipped Bernie’s arm. Her friend regained her composure.

“I told you she would think I look ridiculous,” Paddy spat at Val as if Bernie wasn’t in the room. It was however Bernie who responded as Val’s confidence appeared to waver. 

“No, you don’t. It’s just a bit of a shock. I am not quite sure what’s going on.”

“We..well some people thought it might be nice to put on a Burns Supper. Like we used to...before-” Paddy started to falter as he noticed Bernie’s eyes mist over.

“For your birthday.” Piped in Val, trying to help Paddy out and regaining her confidence. “I will leave you to it, I’ve left Jack behind the bar and well he is still pretty green, if anyone asks for a cocktail we may be in danger of losing our licence.”

On Val’s departure, Bernie moved towards Paddy. The forgotten scarf Trixie had placed around her friend’s shoulders fell to the floor. Paddy bent down to pick it up.

“Oops be careful, good job there is no-one stood behind you.”

Paddy straightened up swiftly and stroked down the back of his kilt. Bernie allowed a relief filled giggle as she saw Paddy’s frown soften. Taking the scarf from Paddy she sighed, the pattern matched the tablecloths downstairs. “My mother’s tartan, they haven’t missed a trick have they?”

“Trixie was most put out when her attempts to discover the Mannion tartan drew a blank.” 

“Mannion is an Irish name, sorry.” Bernie wasn’t quite sure why she was apologising for her name, but it felt appropriate.

“We all know that now.” Laughed Paddy.

“How did you find the Home clan tartan?”

“Violet and Evie poured over hundreds of samples and narrowed it down to a few which they matched to old photos of Wilf’s kilt. They figured that was how the wily old bugger had gotten round it, using your mam’s tartan.”

“Everyone has gone to so much trouble, I feel like such a fraud. I just wanted an evening alone with you in Appleby Thornton.” Bernie blushed feeling even more guilty.

Sensing her confusion Paddy cupped her cheeks in his hands.

“We can go out any night.” Bernie raised an eyebrow at Paddy’s optimism. Even though Jack had turned eighteen and could now serve behind the bar, Paddy still found it difficult to let go. Most of their evenings were spent working or propping up the bar. 

Any further discussion of their work-play balance would have to wait. The sound of familiar footsteps running up the stairs alerted them their presence was required in the bar. Paddy and Bernie followed Tim into a cacophony of noise, the sound of fiddle, banjo and accordion mixed with laughter and the pounding of feet on the wooden floor.

Tim grinned and nodded as Bernie asked, “Isn’t that the Bridges that come in on a Thursday night?” 

“Apparently, before they were married they used to go to Scottish dancing on Thursday nights.” 

Kevin and the Tweaven Folk band sounded like a group of musicians who were enjoying a successful long awaited reunion, rather than strangers that had only met a few days ago. Apparently Kevin didn’t just play the Bagpipes but was going to town on the harmonica. Mac, had found refuge in Reggie and had settled on a bench seat with the dogs head resting on the lad’s lap.

Alan Bridges and his wife Yvonne broke from each other and flew off in different directions to persuade, grab and drag the people sitting at the tables onto the makeshift dance floor. Fred was up first taking hold of Vi who had pushed her nose out of the kitchen to sneak a peek at the fun. She protested, explaining she couldn’t leave her post, but Evie chased her onto the dance floor with a tea towel. 

Bernie smiled at Patsy and Delia, she had never seen anyone quick step to the Gay Gordons before. Phyllis’ face was flushed as she tried to stay in time partnered by a very light on her feet Lucille. Bernie grinned as Paddy dug his son in the ribs and Tim scowled shaking his head in protest. Her smugness was short lived when Alan Bridges took hold of her hand and dragged her onto the floor. She groaned to herself realising she should have seen it coming. But she knew she wasn’t the only one who had been distracted and let their guard down. As Alan swung her around she glimpsed a determined Yvonne pulling a very reluctant Paddy to the centre of the room. A massive cheer went up and it wasn’t for his dancing prowess, but the first view of the crowd of Paddy in his Highland Dress. 

Bernie couldn’t deny she felt a tingle as the lights dimmed and Paddy stood behind the tressel table. She could see how nervous he was, his thumb working against the forefinger of his left hand, the right hand turning over his phone on the table. Voices were hushed sensing a level of anticipation in the air. She hoped he could see her reassuring smile, when he returned her wink she knew he understood. 

Everyone instinctively got to their feet as the sound of the pipes flooded the room. Kevin slowly marched into the bar from the kitchen playing, Mac following at his feet, ears pricked. A few steps behind walked Violet beaming proudly carrying a silver tray with her pride and joy in prime position. She placed the dish in front of a very pale but focused landlord. Bernie noticed Vi gently touch Paddy’s hand after she had laid down her burden. 

Paddy cleared his throat and everyone sat. Bernie held her breath, she was relieved when he started reading from his phone in his own soft Northern English twang and didn't attempt a Scottish accent. He did struggle a little with more than the odd word and she noticed it was in parts an English translation of Burns’s  _ Address to a Haggis _ . She did think her dad would be shaking his head and laughing if he was watching these antics held in his memory. As a shiver left her she wondered if Marianne was also looking down with pride and amusement.

  
  


Bernie bit her lip, this was the difficult bit, if trying to read a 18th century Scottish poem out loud wasn’t hard enough. She knew from years of experience Paddy had to keep reciting while removing the  _ Sgian-dubh _ from his woolly knee length socks. He then had to pull the small dagger out of its black leather holder and plunge the blade into the Haggis at just the right moment in the text. She went to hold onto her chair but was surprised when a long thin hand grabbed hers. Tim’s hand was cold, but sweaty at the same time and she squeezed it back.

The verbal response of the audience to Paddy whipping the blade out of its sheath made Bernie giggle and she heard a snort from her neighbour. The following stab and slash into the unsuspecting pudding received equal responses of gasps and murmurs. She felt the boy’s hand slacken in her own and his breath released from his chest at the same time she let her lungs relax. Bernie felt Paddy was doing the same pausing as the crowd regained its collective composure. He dared to give her a quick glance and she beamed in approval. She wished she could go over to him and push back the wayward kink of hair that had fallen over his face during the dramatics.

Paddy finished the poem with ease following the tricky bit, he didn’t seem to mind stumbling over some of the unfamiliar words. It wasn’t like anyone was going to correct him. There was much relief all around when he finally toasted the Haggis and everyone could raise the complimentary whisky they had been nursing since the beginning of the festivities. Not everyone had been patient and some found they were toasting with an empty glass, supping air. A nervous Bernie would have been included in this number, but Trixie had passed on her dram so she could at least properly take part in the toast. Paddy received a standing ovation, he wasn’t deceived it was for his faultless performance, but more for effort or maybe they were just hungry and glad it was finally over. 

The assembled guests ate their fill of Scottish Fayre. The whisky sauce may have proved more popular than the spicy offal and oatmeal pudding. Although Violet did remark that Poplar’s vegan population had seemed to increase dramatically overnight. Buckle’s Breweries Burns Bernie Beers proved very popular. Ale Fond Kiss, Red Red Rose Ruby Ale and Auld Lang Stout all sold out.

The dancing recommenced to the Tweaven Folk band and its newest member. The Bridges and the lead singer tried to engineer a ceilidh of sorts. This resulted in a room full of mostly English people flinging themselves and each other about in an attempt at the world’s longest communal twizzy record. The highlight being every time Paddy spun around in his kilt a large cheer went up as it splayed out. 

Eventually he refused to dance and Bernie gave up too. She found him outside smoking one of her roll-ups. She just grinned knowing he deserved one. Bernie hugged Trixie’s scarf around her.

“Aren’t you cold, in...erm that?”

Paddy smoothed the kilt under him between his bare legs and the cool wood of Peggy and Frank’s memorial bench. Bernie grinned and went back indoors. 

She returned with two Abhainn Dearg malt whiskies and one of the tartan tablecloths. She wrapped it around Paddy’s shoulders before perching herself on his chilly knees, flipping his sporran up out of the way. Paddy took over the blanket duties and wrapped the cover round her.

Cold fingers fumbled over sharing the dying cigarette and they sipped from the same whisky tumbler. From where she had placed them, Bernie could only reach one glass without leaving the warmth of the tablecloth and Paddy’s arms. Paddy had long since dispensed with the faffy lace ruff and wore a cream open neck Jacobite shirt, again courtesy of connections of Patsy. As Bernie playfully twisted the string ties around the fingers of one hand. She slowly ran the fingers of her other hand along the hem of the kilt.

“Is this Turner tartan then?”

“No, the Turners are from Liverpool, probably some Irish in there somewhere too, but my mother’s family hailed from Fife.” Paddy softly answered.

Bernie wriggled on his knee trying to gain a bunch of the fabric of the kilt in her hand, as the band broke into Deacon Blue’s, Dignity.

“So which clan...ayyyyyeah!” She quickly jumped up vigorously rubbing the flesh between her boot and the hem of her dress on her right thigh. Paddy stared at her in confusion and concern.

“Something bit me.”

“It’s January.”

“Am I bleeding, is there a bump?” Bernie turned her back to Paddy and lifted up her skirt. Paddy started to wonder whose birthday it was. He used his phone as a torch and took his time giving a thorough examination of her right thigh. The eventual diagnosis was no injury to her person, but there was a nasty snag in her new-on tights. 

Paddy also identified the culprit pointing to the clan dagger attached to the front of his kilt. “I think you sat on this?”

“You stabbed me.” 

“You stabbed you.” 

She leant down and carefully unfastened the pin from the front apron of the kilt. She recovered her position now free from hazards. Scrutinising the tiny weapon in her hands under the light of Paddy’s phone,

“Aww, the crest is the world below a rainbow between two clouds, what does the motto say?”

“At Spes Infracta.”

“Oooh you're getting the hang of these ancient tongues, aren’t you?” Bernie giggled, “what does it mean in boring old English?”

Paddy, who had been laughing with her, fell serious.

“It means  _ Yet My Hope is Unbroken.”  _ He gently tipped her chin forward with his thumb and forefinger and kissed her.

“That’s beautiful.” Bernie caught her breath. “What was your mam’s maiden name?”

“Hope.”

“Home and Hope,” smiled Bernie partly to herself. 

Paddy reached inside his sporran and handed Bernie a small tartan box with a gold bow on top. 

“But this was my present.” She smiled pulling on his shirt strings.

Paddy shone his phone torch on the box as Bernie opened it and carefully took out a silver brooch. She got hold of Paddy’s hand and shone it on a silver V bending inwards to make the shape of a heart with an emerald at the base just below the Home clan crest. 

“That is a very fierce looking lion, why am I not surprised.” Bernie didn’t need the torch to see the glint in Paddy’s eye as he spoke. “ I nearly got you the Hope rainbow one instead....but I wasn’t sure.” 

Bernie smiled, “Maybe next year?”

“You are still very presumptuous after all these years. This was a one night only kinda thing,” Paddy choked, then swiftly changing the subject, “I liked the motto on the  _ Hume  _ crest anyway.” 

Bernie was impressed with his correct Scottish pronunciation of Home. She read aloud the words around the lion's head  _ A Home, A Home, A Home,  _ that is the slogan, but the motto is actually  _ True To The End _ .”

“Well I think the matriarchy has it tonight.”

“Do you know Robbie Burns was a great supporter of women's rights as well as being a romantic. He wrote a poem about it.”

“From what I’ve heard he was very fond of women indeed. Counting the number of children he fathered.”

“Yes, that as well,” muttered Bernie, “but just for tonight I am going to be Shelagh Bernadette Mannion-Home and you can be Patrick Turner-Hope.

The traditional music of the Corries was now interspersed with more recent Scottish poetry, as the band played tunes by the likes of Travis and Franz Ferdinand. The Proclaimers, I’m Gonna Be 500 miles, filtered through the door leading to the beer garden. The accompanying laughter, sound of leather and man-made sole stomping on polished oak convinced the two in the beer garden they weren’t being missed.

“One thing I can’t get my head around is how Val convinced you to do this?”

“She just reminded me of every time you have stepped out of your comfort zone for me. How many times you have had to embrace a part of yourself that you didn’t know existed or had thought you had left behind.”

Bernie rubbed her thumb over the slogan on her new brooch as Paddy continued.

“Basically how many times you have put me, us, our hope of a life, a home together before the person who you thought you were and believed yourself to be.”

“Val said that?”

“Sort of, maybe a bit more colourful and there was some violence involved, but I did agree with the sentiment.” 

“I think our mams would have approved of Val.” 

“Are you true to the end, Shelagh Bernadette?”

“Well, you just better hope this isn’t the end, Patrick.”

The sounds of Auld Lang Syne filled the night and Paddy leaned forward for another kiss suddenly aware Bernie had very cold hands and had chosen not to replace the kilt pin.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading <3\. I might just add an extra chapter containing explanations and translations. I know a lot of this must be mistifying to most of you, but you are absolutley amazing and so appreciated for your devotion to the Crown, Poplar-on-Tweaven, it's locals and Paddy and Bernie and to me!


	6. Burns, Dress and Clans.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised...

**If you have got this far, thank you so much for reading.**

Some information that you may or may not find useful:

**ROBERT BURNS**

Robert Burns was born on January 25th 1759. He is considered to be Scotland's National poet. 

His romantic poetry is incredibly popular: My Love is Like a Red Red Red Rose, Ae fond kiss, Delia.

In over 700 poems, songs, stories and adaptations he also wrote about:

**Nature:** To a Mouse, To a Louse, To a Mountain Daisy,

**Politics and Society:** The Rights of Women, A Man’s a Man for a That, The Author’s Earnest Cry and Prayer, Cock Up your Beaver.

**History:** The Battle of Sherramuir, Killiecrankie, Ye Jacobites By Name. 

**Funny Stuff** : Tam o’ Shanter (my favourite), Address to the Toothache

**Sex:** He wrote about that a lot. 

As well as his original work, he was a collector of traditional songs and often updated and adapted them such as Auld Lang Syne and the one time Scottish National, Anthem Scots Wha Hae. 

Burns was born in Ayrshire on the West coast of Scotland and worked for his father, a poor tenant farmer, from being a child. His schooling was erratic as he needed on the farm. He and his 6 younger siblings were mostly homeschooled by their father who had taught himself to read. He began writing poetry to impress the lassies at 16, but it wasn’t until his first book of poems was published in 1786, as he tried to raise money to emigrate to the West indies. He never got to Jamaica as the Ploughman Poet became an overnight success in the days of quill and paper, print and word of mouth. Burns was a prolific writer and left a huge legacy which was fortunate for us as he died 10 years after being first published, aged only 37. 

  
  


**BURNS NIGHT**

The first Burns Supper was held in 1801 and are now held by Burns Societies all around the world, as well as in hotels, pubs, clubs, community centres, schools and in homes. Primarily in Scotland, but very popular in the North of England (especially in Tweaven). Also places further south and around the world with a Scottish influence and population. I have no official figures regarding this, but I would definitely say Burns Night is becoming more popular and organized evenings are becoming easier to find outside Scotland every year. Some also say that Burns Night is celebrated in Scotland in larger numbers than St Andrews Day.

There is an order of play (so to speak) but as Burns Nights become more popular and widespread, the more variations on a theme there are.

The main constants are: Haggis, a piper to pipe in the haggis (if possible), rendition of Burns poem, Address to a Haggis (which he may have written with a tongue firmly in his cheek) and a wee dram of whisky to toast the Haggis, Auld Lang Syne to end.

A proper Burns supper also includes the Selkirk Grace (attributed to Burns) and a Toast to the Lassies and a Reply from the Lassies! (These are original written toasts by the guests and meant to be fun and a bit of banter between the lads and lassies, a bit like Best Man and Chief Bridesmaid speeches at a wedding). I felt poor Paddy and Bernie had enough to contend with, but may work on an epilogue for next January.... I am thinking Fred could toast the Poplar lassies and maybe Val to reply?

**HIGHLAND DRESS**

Onto Paddy’s Highland Dress...Kilts-4-U is a real company google them. I spent a disgusting amount of time “researching” on there.

The Jabot is that frilly layered ruffle that you also see in 18th century male dress.

The Jabot was optional, but I wanted Paddy to feel as uncomfortable as possible. A shirt and tie or bowtie would have sufficed. Waistcoat was optional, but it is Patrick!

Jacobite Shirt is like a smock with a collar and shoestring ties at the V neck. (Why not!!)

There are various jackets that can be worn, but I do like a nice Montrose jacket, very tidy.

**CLANS**

The Hope and Home Clans are real and I tried to describe the tartan and crests as well as I could, the mottos and slogans are correct. When I realized Mannion was not a Scottish name, I had to think out of the box and when I saw Home and Hope were both Scottish clans it was a no-brainer with these two.

I think the Sgian-Dubh I covered in the fic, it’s pronounced _ski an do_

Home is pronounced _Hume_

Abhainn Dearg is a malt whisky from the Outer Hebrides (but you guessed that). 

**English Translations of Burns Quotes used in the Fic.**

  
  


**Chapter One: Address to a Haggis by Robert Burns 1786.**

**Burns: Fair fa** ’ **your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race!** Aboon **them a’ ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm** : **Weel are ye wordy o'a grace As lang’s my arm.**

**Translation: Fair full your honest, jolly face, Great chieftain of the sausage race! Above them all you take your place, Stomach, tripe, or intestines: Well are you worthy of a grace As long as my arm.**

**B: His knife see rustic Labour dight, An’ cut you up wi’ ready sleight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin’, rich!**

**E: His knife see rustic Labour wipe, And cut you up with ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like any ditch: And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm steaming, rich!**

**Chapter Two: Versicles On Sign-Posts by Robert Burns 1788.**

**B: His Face With Smile Eternal Drest, Just Like The Landlord’s To His Guest’s, High As They Hang With Creaking Din, To Index Out The Country Inn.**

**E: His face with smile eternal dressed, Just like the landlord to his guest, High as they hang with creaking din. To index out the Country Inn.**

**Chapter Three: To A Mouse by Robert Burns, 1785.**

**B:** **The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men. Gang aft agley. An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain. For promis’d joy!”**

**E: The best laid schemes of mice and men, Go often askew, And leaves us nothing but grief and pain,**

**For promised joy!**

**Chapter Four: To a Mountain Daisy, Robert Burns 1786**

**B: There, in Thy Scanty Mantle Clad, Thy Snawie Bosom Sunward Spread.**

**E:** **There, in your scanty mantle clad, Your snowy bosom sun-ward spread,**

**Chapter Five: Ae Fond Kiss, Robert Burns 1791**

**B: Who Shall Say That Fortune Grieves Him. While The Star of Hope She Leaves Him?**

**E: Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him?**

  
  
  


The Tweaven Folk Band featuring Kevin and Mac are available for Birthdays, Chrisentings, Anniversaries, Weddings, Graduations and Bar Mitzvahs. 

**LINKS**

[ https://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/robertburns/ ](https://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/robertburns/) (excellent resource contains 719 poems and celebrity audio)

[ http://www.robertburnsfederation.com/poems/translations/index.htm ](http://www.robertburnsfederation.com/poems/translations/index.htm) (English translations)

[ http://www.robertburns.org/encyclopedia/TranslationBurnsin.865.shtml ](http://www.robertburns.org/encyclopedia/TranslationBurnsin.865.shtml) (English translations)

<https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haggis>

<https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/p0811qp7> ( Eddi Reader, love this woman, sings Burns songs like no-one else)

[ https://www.kilts-4-u.com/ ](https://www.kilts-4-u.com/) (Spent far too long on here)

[ https://www.scotclans.com/scottish-clans/clan-home/ ](https://www.scotclans.com/scottish-clans/clan-home/) (Great clan site)

[ https://www.scotclans.com/scottish-clans/clan-hope/ ](https://www.scotclans.com/scottish-clans/clan-hope/)

[ https://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/728437857/home-clan-crest-luckenbooth-brooch?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=clan+brooch+home&ref=sr_gallery-1-3&organic_search_click=1 ](https://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/728437857/home-clan-crest-luckenbooth-brooch?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=clan+brooch+home&ref=sr_gallery-1-3&organic_search_click=1) I based the brooch on this design. I added the emerald because green is a significant Home colour. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will update The Crown Inn Jukebox, Paddy's Playlist ASAP on Spotify.

**Author's Note:**

> Crown Jewels stories all have song quotes at the beginning of every chapter. They can be found on the Crown Jewel Jukebox on Spotify. In this fic there is a combination of lines from Robert Burns poetry and lyrics from songs by Scottish bands.


End file.
